


Around the World in 80 Days (More or Less)

by Megara Bee (Megara_Bee)



Series: Around the World [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Around the World in 80 Days AU, F/M, Rumbelle Christmas in July 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7566856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megara_Bee/pseuds/Megara%20Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle French is not the type of woman to need saving, thank-you-very-much, but when a handsome, enigmatic stranger and his manservant just happen to appear in the nick of time…. well, she’s not about to complain.<br/>[RCIJ Gift for thedarkcheessmaster, who prompted “Around the World in 80 Days” (the novel)]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Around the World in 80 Days (More or Less)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is past copyright and is freely available online or for download. That means three things: 1. You should it read it! 2. I've borrowed some lines/short passages directly from the story, but also taken some liberties. And 3, some of it is sort of antiquated. I chose to leave some words the way they are written even though they're no longer spelled that way, or they're no longer in use.

Belle woke from her stupor with a terrible headache. Whatever drug they were using had horrid after-effects. She blinked, trying to will the orbs of light to stop dancing for one bloody moment so she could breathe, when she realized what they were.

Candles.

The room was empty but for dozens of candles, effusive with the scent of roses and a scant, wavering light. She groaned, the stone floor rough and cold and unpleasant. She managed to sit up and subdue the urge to vomit.

Self-pity aside, if she didn’t find a way out of this mess by sunrise, she’d be dead. And she quite liked being alive, thanks.

The candlelight, apart from making her eyes sore, started to give her an unusual idea. Belle pressed her finger into the soft, pooling wax. She could scrape it off with her fingernail, but it crumbled as soon as soon as she moved. No, she’d have to try something different.

Belle had to use both hands to lift one of the waxen pillars, its flame dancing with motion as she scooted back against the wall. She wasn’t sure how hot the wax would be. Adjusting her grip to hold the candle in one hand, she extended the other, wrist up. She flinched, pouring the wax over the sensitive skin. It wasn’t as bad as she was expecting – the heat could even be pleasant if she were outside in the cool night air. But in here, suffocating, waiting for death….

It took her hours to figure out how to layer the wax, how to blend it across her skin to create a realistic facsimile. For once in her life, she was glad to be as pale as paraffin.

* * *

“She’s dead! She’s dead!”

The cries filled the valley as the guards scrambled. The sun was just beginning to peak over the hills, the dead Rajah was waiting on the funeral pyre, and the fakirs were beginning to gather in groups around him.

“I may not speak the language, but I’d wager I know what they’re saying,” said the long-haired man, shifting his weight. Crouching in the bushes was difficult for someone who relied on a cane to get around.

“Yes Sir,” said the Parsee guide.

“Then we’re too late.” Sir David Charming curled his hand into a fist. “I had hoped to save the poor girl. We should go before we’re discovered.”

“No,” Gold said. “No, we can’t leave until we know it’s finished.”

“You continue to surprise me, Mr. Gold! You are a man of heart, after all.”

“Sometimes,” replied Rostand Gold, quietly; “when I have the time.”

A large, muscled man appeared, the form of a woman hanging limp in his arms. From this distance Gold could only make out her dark hair, which stood stark against the white cotton of her gown. He’d wager she was quite lovely.

Belle did not breathe. Even the smallest of inhalations could give her away at this point, cradled in the arms of one of her abductors. She made sure to stay totally limp as he deposited her, gently, onto the pyre. Apparently they were still planning to set her ablaze alongside her husband, brute that he was.

As the guard walked away, Belle risked a shallow breath and a quick peek. She opened one eye – the one closest to the wood – and took a look at the corpse of a man she had never loved.

Only it wasn’t Gaspar at all. This man was clearly bald beneath the borrowed turban, and he had Anglican features heavily covered in dust or powder of some kind. The man, whoever he was, decided to peek too. Belle struggled not to gasp. She heard the torch being lighted. This was it.

Whatever she was going to do, she had to do it now!

Not-Gaspar seemed to have a similar plan. He winked at her and suddenly he was up, lurching to his feet atop the wood pile. There were screams of terror, the fakirs threw themselves to the ground in fear and prostration. He jumped down from the pyre and grabbed her hand, helping her to her feet. Throwing one arm around her waist, they ran, not-Gaspar pulling her into the brush. Soon they came to a small clearing where two other men, one in a suit and one in a military uniform, seemed to be waiting, speechless.

“Let’s go!” Not-Gaspar cried, and the next thing Belle knew she was being pushed onto the back of an elephant.

* * *

When the wooden torch burst into life, it took both the guide and Sir Charming to hold Gold back. Apparently he intended to sprint forward in a mad dash, but such an attempt would be not only hopeless, but dangerous as well.

Sir Charming suggested again that they mount the elephant and leave, but at that moment he realized Gold’s servant, Dove, was nowhere to be found. Cries of horror sprung up from the crowds, and at first the men could not clearly see the cause of them. It seemed as though the Rajah was not really dead – and neither was his bride! The two corpses were running towards them at full speed. It was only once Dove spoke that Gold realized it was his manservant in the Rajah’s stolen clothes.

Needless to say, some haste would be required.

Gold and Charming scrambled into the baskets, and the guide his usual post on the elephant’s neck, which left Dove and the woman clinging to each other as they were bounced turbulently across the Kiouni’s back.

Once they were a safe distance from the pyre, Gold let his eyes wander to the girl.

She was beautiful. Her hair was lighter than he’d imagined, and streaked with bits of gold and red in the bright Indian sun. Her eyes were lively as she took in the jungle from her new position, a smile spread across her rich pink lips, apparently determined to remain. No matter how she was bounced about, she grinned like a madwoman.

Despite the better part of an hour having passed since the skirmish, Gold’s heart was still racing. He offered her his seat many times, it would be a simple matter to pause and change places, but she always refused.

They reached Allahabad near midday, just in time to catch the train to Calcutta. Gold clicked his pocket watch shut with only the slightest hint of pride.

“We’d best be off. Sir Charming, are you continuing on with us?”

“If there are no objections.”

Gold withdrew a stack of pound notes from his carpet bag and handed them to the guide. “Your bravery was very admirable, but I cannot compensate you in like measure. I can, however, ask that you keep Kiouni here. An elephant is hardly welcome on a passenger train.”

“Thank you, sir!” The boy was clearly delighted.

“Now, Miss…?”

“French. Belle French.”

“Miss French, it is of course your choice, but I think you would be far safer leaving this territory at once.”

“But sir, I cannot pay you.”

“I don’t expect you to. Come, join us on the train and we’ll discuss the next step.”

“Thank you,” Belle said, her heart once more swelling with gratitude. Without these men, she might be a pile of ash by now.

“Dove, there’s an hour yet before the train departs. Go fetch some things for Miss French befitting a lady, and don’t worry about the cost.”

Belle flushed, eyes casting downward to her dress. Once it had been a fine dress perfect for the heat in the valley, the sleeves hanging loose at her elbows and the bodice loose. Immodest garb by British standards. Now it was covered in mud and soot, torn in several places, and not at all befitting her current company.

“Sir Charming, please escort Lady Belle onto the train. We’ll join you shortly. I must get my visa stamped before departure.”

Belle took the proffered arm, glancing over her shoulder to watch Mr. Gold, greying hair tossed by the breeze, limp down the dirt road and disappear into the crowd.

* * *

Belle could hardly tear her eyes from the scenery as the train dashed down the tracks. She only stirred when she heard her name called in a faintly Scottish brogue, and probably not for the first time.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gold! Yes?”

“I was asking where you’re from, Miss French. To where are you now traveling?”

“Oh. Well, I’m from France, but there is nothing left for me in Marseille. I was educated in England, and I could perhaps secure employment there, given some time.”

“How did you come to India?” asked the younger man, Mr. Charming, Belle had heard him called, and what an appropriate name. He had a gentle face and warm eyes, and a smile that had no doubt won him a heart or two.

Belle winced, hoping that none of her companions caught the way her muscles rippled around her right eye, flinching at the memory. “My father was once a wealthy man. He had…. indulgences, which cost him the fortune and his title. However, a profitable match was made between myself and the Rajah whom we have left behind, cold in flame. He wanted a foreign wife, and had enough money that my father’s price was as a teardrop in an ocean.”

Belle’s eyes drifted, for the first time since she began to her story, to the face of her apparent benefactor. His expression was stone, unreadable. He seemed to be watching the trees through the window.

“My poor girl,” said Charming. “You have quite the way with words.”

“And yet your story is no less tragic for the picture you paint.” Gold didn’t look at her when he spoke.

“I don’t require pity, sir. But I am grateful for your assistance.”

“They thought you were dead, but clearly they were mistaken. How did you do that?” Gold’s eyes were a rich, honeyed brown, and for a moment Belle felt herself being eclipsed by them. Suddenly she remembered he’d asked a question.

“Oh, uh, wax. Candle wax.” Belle lifted her wrists, still coated in the stuff. She began to peel it away, tucking the scraps into a handkerchief to dispose later. “And may I ask, sir, how you and your party come to be traveling through India?”

“There’s little story in that. I’m sure Dove would be glad to dramatize it for you.”

Belle turned to the man next to her, the one who had been with her on the pyre.

“Je suis de Paris, Mademoiselle,” he said with a lovely grin.

“Que merveilleux!”

He told her, in French, about his curious new employer and their daring trip around the world. He told her about the bet, about the 20,000 pounds at stake, about how Gold was surprisingly generous and kind for a recluse. He even told her about the gas lamp he had left burning and what a burden it was. Dove had only known Mr. Gold since the day their journey began, but already he felt like fate had been kind to deliver himself to Gold’s doorstep.

Belle glanced at the man in question and thought she detected a smirk on the corner of his lips. She would have to be very careful about what she said in his company.

* * *

There were only 5 hours from the time they reached Calcutta to the time the ship left for Hong Kong, and Belle had convinced the mysterious Mr. Gold to join her on a brisk walk. Feeling bold for a moment, she attached herself to his arm.

His eyebrows raised, his lips parted, and then he was right back to his usual unreadable demeanor. “Dove has gone to the docks to ensure that an additional compartment can be secured. I hope you don’t mind my forward assumption, but it would not be advisable for you to stay in this region.”

“Of course. I’m incredibly grateful to you for your continuing rescue.”

“I hardly think booking you passage to China constitutes a rescue. It seems more like abduction.”

Belle laughed. “Well, I’d urge you to think of any ways in which I can begin compensating you for your generosity. I am quite in your debt, Mr. Gold.”

“Hmm,” he said, pretending to ponder for a moment. “Perhaps some conversation on our journey. We’ll be on ship for ten days, and although I am an avid whist player, I might find great diversion in discussion on any number of topics. You are Oxford educated, are you not?”

“I am. I could discuss anything from the finest French fashions to Darwin’s _Origin of the Species_.”

“That’s a broad range indeed.”

There was a lapse as they reached a point overlooking the water. Belle sighed softly as she admired the deep color of the sea.

“When we reach Hong Kong, you’ll have an important decision to make.”

“I will?”

“I’d be happy to provide you with sufficient funds for the voyage back to England, accommodations, and any other needs you may have, or you can continue on with us. It’s only right that I see you safely returned, but such chaperoning, in this case, will involve what might be an increasingly arduous journey. I will not ask you to make such an uncertain expedition.”

Belle looked up at him, mouth agape. Gold’s hand flexed on his cane.

“You… You would let me come with you?”

“…A-As I said, I won’t ask you-”

“Yes! Please, Mr. Gold. I know it’s an imposition, but I have always dreamed of seeing the world. I know that I’m already deeply in your debt, but I cannot turn down such an opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t call what we’re doing “seeing the world”. It’s mostly travel, train to ship to train. We’ll cover a great deal of distance without much sightseeing.”

“That’s rather a pessimistic view on this adventure of yours, Mr. Gold. If you’re not seeing any sights, then I’d wager you’re not looking very hard.”

Gold smirked, looking at her briefly before turning back to the ocean. “Well then, I look forward to many more conversations, Miss French.”

With a grin that made the sun look pale, Belle French took up Gold’s arm once again, and the pair headed back toward the docks.

* * *

“You say the Carnatic is gone?”

Belle could hardly believe the empty dock in front of her. They had arrived late in Hong Kong to find that their steamship had been delayed – a stroke of luck! – and was scheduled to leave the following morning. But here they were, sun peeking over the cobalt waves, and the ship was gone.

“Yes. It seems they finished repairs early and left last night without any notice given to passengers. Bloody unprofessional, if you ask me,” Cruella said, voice practically purring despite her clear irritation. Detective Inspector De Vil, known to her traveling companions only as “Madame De Vil”, her profession a secret and her motives unclear, gave a dire pout.

Belle didn’t mind the woman, although she had a flair for the dramatic and was always wearing fur coats despite the danger from the sea air. Dove had been attempting to make better acquaintance with the woman, before he disappeared.

Belle’s heart flipped. In truth, although this delay would be fatal to Mr. Gold’s wager, Dove’s absence worried her far more. The man was capable, sure, and clever enough to meet them somewhere along the path, but as Belle’s personal savior, she found his departure very troubling.

Cruella turned to Gold. “This must put a damper on your plans, Mr. Gold.”

“Perhaps. But I see no reason to worry just yet.” Still holding Belle’s arm in his own, he started down towards the boats bobbing in the harbor.

Cruella followed, transfixed – she had been certain that her subterfuge would be enough to keep Rostand Gold in Hong Kong until the warrant could arrive. Getting Dove incapacitated enough to pass out in an opium den had successfully prevented him from telling his master about the ship’s departure, and she had thought that surely this would be enough to convince Gold to settle here for a while. She still didn’t understand why a bank robber would insist on this charade of traveling the world, especially when it would be much safer to hide out in a country like China. Neither did she understand why an independently wealthy man like Rostand Gold would want to steal 55,000 pounds from the Bank of England. Nonetheless, she intended to see this thing through.

They spent the better part of three hours searching for a boat to take them to Yokohama, but each was either loading or unloading cargo, and were therefore unable to take on passengers and depart. Belle was already preparing strategies to cheer Gold up if they should fail when they were approached by a sailor.

“Is your honour looking for a boat?”

“Have you a boat ready to sail?”

“Yes, your honour; a pilot-boat, the best in the harbor.”

“Does she go fast?”

“Between eight and nine knots the hour. Is it for a sea excursion?”

“No; for a voyage.”

“A voyage?”

“Yes; will you agree to take us to Yokohama?”

The sailor laughed, his eyes wide. “Is your honour joking?”

“No. I must get to Yokohama by the 14th at the latest to take the boat for San Francisco.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.

“I offer you a hundred pounds per day, and an additional reward of two hundred pounds if I reach Yokohama in time.”

“Are you in earnest?”

Gold convinced him of his sincerity by showing him a stack of pound notes. The sailor walked away a little bit, seemingly wrestling with the decision. Cruella was in mortal suspense.

Mr. Gold turned to Belle, his face void of any clear emotions. “You would not be afraid, would you, Miss French?”

“Not with you, Mr. Gold,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze with her gloved hand.

The sailor returned, but refused to take him as far as Japan. “We can take you to Shanghai. It is less dangerous by the coast.”

“I fail to see the purpose of that. I must take the American steamer from Yokohama.”

“But why? The steamer does not begin its journey in Yokohama. It makes several stops, including Shanghai.”

“You’re sure?”

“Certain. It leaves four days from now, in the evening.”

“How quickly can we make way?”

“In about an hour.”

“Perfect. Here are 100 pounds to seal the deal.” He turned to Cruella. “Would you care to take advantage, madam?”

“Thank you, I was just about to ask.”

“But what about Dove?” Belle asked, turning to her escort with worry in her eyes.

“I shall do everything in my power to find him. You and Madame De Vil should go aboard.” He removed Belle’s arm from his own – was she deceiving herself, or did he squeeze her hand? – and headed back up into the city.

He left a sum of money at the police station to keep an eye out for Dove, and smaller sums at all the hotels. Too soon he had to return to the ship, and his servant was still unaccounted for.

* * *

The little ship was making great progress. Rostand God appeared totally unaffected, though he occasionally made comments to the captain about the use (or non-use) of the sails. Whatever the answer he received, Gold would always say, “Very well, Captain; it's your profession, not mine.”

But from the way he stood, legs broad and hands clasped behind his back, Belle wondered if that were true. She stood from her seat on the pretense of stretching and ambled her way to his side.

“You were a sailor once, weren’t you Mr. Gold?”

He did not turn, but merely looked at her from the corner of his eye. “What makes you think so?”

“The way you stand quite gives you away. Persons unaccustomed to seafaring, like myself, are prone to pitching with the ship. You seem more like a blade of grass in the wind; supple, bending, but still strong.”

He had no comment but the faint reddening of his cheeks and the subtle turning of his frame in her direction.

“You’re not as conversant as the English gentlemen I remember. Have styles changed that much?”

“I cannot speak on styles, madam, or indeed, on much of anything. I do not often find conversations necessary, and when they are I rarely find them pleasant.”

“I see. Well, I'll just leave you to your thoughts.” She began to move away but was stopped, his hand on her wrist.

“Please, not on my account. In this… and, as it seems, in most things… you are a rarity.”

It was Belle’s turn to blush.

The detective watched all this from her own seat, eyes narrowing and lips curled in a sneer. Normally she would make one of any number of biting comments which entered her mind, but as she was currently benefitting from Mr. Gold’s generosity, she felt obliged to hold back. He was perilously tricky, this thief. Rather than run straight to America with his loot, he had decided to circumnavigate the globe! Quite ingenious, lest he be stopped and recognized at the port, for surely the police had been expecting him to run west. Much cleverer, then, to do the exact opposite and yield the same result.

Indeed, De Vil watched them into the night, and again the next morning; Miss French seemed totally bound to her protector. Cruella wondered if this did not render her an accomplice, while Belle began to ruminate on the state of her heart. It seemed to have changed since her escape, in some subtle way that she could not name. She only knew that it beat a much lovelier tempo when she stood on deck gazing at the sea, standing side by side with Mr. Gold.

It was later that afternoon, still under the watchful eye of the (secret) detective, that things began to change.

The weather had so far been a boon; strong winds and good sailors had borne them close to their goal. It was those same good sailors who now informed Mr. Gold that they had spotted a tempest brewing to the south.

“Well then, it should propel us forward.”

The captain stared at Gold, mouth agape. “That’s certainly one way of looking at it.”

Cruella quickly descended, afraid of her fur stole becoming irreparably damaged in the salty sea air, but Belle refused to go below deck. She was certain that with his success now in question Gold would need some comforting, but she found him quite as stoic as ever. In fact his composure slipped only when waves began to crash over the edge of deck, soaking Belle’s skirts. He sought to protect her from the waves as though she were made of paper.

“Mr. Gold, I assure you, I have encountered saltwater before. I’m quite an accomplished swimmer.”

“I have no doubt, but a chill in this weather could impact your health.”

“And that would slow your journey, certainly.”

“What?” Gold looked over her shoulder and his eyes widened. “Look sharp!” he called, and suddenly his hands were at her waist and he was hauling her around as though she were no more than a sack of flour. She faintly heard his cane clatter to the deck, but the sound was lost as a wave came aboard with a resounding crash and hit Gold squarely in the back. Belle’s shoes were not meant for such weather and she lost her footing, but Gold hands found her arms and hers his, and she was shortly back on her feet.

She’d never stood this close to him before. With each shuddering breath, their expanding chests made contact. Belle’s eyes were locked on his neck; his collar had been rent open and she could see his pulse hammering away. Her throat felt dry as her eyes raked upwards, her nose catching hints of pine and spice. He was panting slightly. Beads of water rolled down his nose. His eyes were locked on her lips and Belle felt something between her ribs begin to quiver, a warmth flushing her chest and cheeks. Before decency could stop her, she raised a hand and fingered the damp ends of his hair.

Suddenly he was moving, slight changes to their position that made the world tilt beneath their feet. Gold sucked in a breath, his hands tightened at her elbows to draw her incrementally closer, and he tipped his head as though to kiss her. More surprising than his change in posture was Belle’s realization that her own head was angling back, that she _wanted_ to know how his lips felt against hers… No, that wasn’t right. The word “need” flashed through her mind.

Just as quickly as it had begun, it ended. Gold cleared his throat, stepping away. Belle’s arms curled around her stomach, hands seeking purchase in the damp fabric of her sleeves. He fetched his cane.

“I….I-” Belle searched for words, but it didn’t matter. Gold turned his back on her, moving to stand at the rail. He went rigid, eyes fixed on the seas ahead. “I’ll, um, just go below.”

He didn’t respond.

She turned on her heel, careful not to slip, and retreated to their quarters.

* * *

Dove had a wretched habit of getting into trouble.

Belle paced across the empty train platform, Cruella scowling on a bench behind her. They were stranded in the middle of the American West, waiting for Mr. Gold’s return. Nearly five hours ago he had marched into the cold morning fog with a small complement of American soldiers in the hope of tracking down the band of Sioux who had attempted to rob the train and had disappeared with three passengers, including Dove. They’d only just recovered him from a circus in Yokohama and managed to get him accommodations on the steamer to San Francisco. Now he’d been kidnapped.

The wait had proved agonizing to Belle, who most likely owed her life to the French manservant, and agonizingly dull to Cruella. Having Gold out of her sights was worrisome, but the cold was worse. And nothing to stare at but the open plain? Horrifying.

There were a few officers hanging about of course, breaking up the monotony of the landscape, and there was a fellow who had approached her, babbling about a sled or something, but whether or not that was a coded proposition, Cruella had to decline. The cold was too bitter for any sort of rendezvous, and she couldn’t leave without Gold.

“I think I see them!” Belle said, wringing her hands as she flitted about the edge of the platform.

“Like the last time you thought you saw them, almost an hour ago? Or perhaps the time before that?”

If Belle heard the barb, she gave no indication. “Yes, I’m sure that’s them! You see those shadows? Don’t they look like people? Ten, twelve!”

Cruella sighed, standing and strolling to the edge of the platform.

“My God, you might actually be right.” Squinting, Cruella could just make out a line of shadowy figures.

Belle grew more insufferable as the seconds stretched into minutes without bringing the men into clear view. She buzzed from point to point, frantic in each gesture.

“Darling, you’re making me dizzy. Why don’t you just sit down? They’ll be here soon enough.”

“But what if they’re hurt? Besides, we must find a way to get Mr. Gold back on his journey as soon as possible. He’s lost so much time already!”

“Dear, we could not have predicted that the good Mr. Dove would be lost in an Indian raid.”

“I believe we’re in Sioux territory, Madame De Vil.”

“Does it really matter?”

“Of course it matters! These peoples have been displaced by the westward expansion of American and European settlers. It’s hardly unimaginable that they would attack the trains that divide their land.”

“I saw you shoot at no less than three of them through the windows of the train!”

“I hardly aimed to kill! And in case you hadn’t noticed, this is the second time in the last few months that someone’s tried to kill me. I fully intend to stay alive; however, my own desire to survive does not preclude me from attempting to be compassionate to the plight of other peoples.”

Finally the approaching party was close enough to see, and the man in front of the party was limping. His hair was lifted by the wind, revealing several scrapes along his jaw.

A snow had just begun to fall, but Belle French did not seem to notice. Gathering her skirts in her hands, she leapt from the train platform, dropping several feet and taking off across the frozen plain. Her breath formed clouds in the air as she panted, racing to meet her protector a quarter mile off.

“Dove!” she cried, throwing her arms around the behemoth and kissing him on the cheek.

“Miss French, it’s all my fault! We’ve lost a day, at least.”

“Don’t you dare blame yourself, Dove. You saved me, and Mr. Gold saved you. You’re men of class and valor.”

“Now you,” he said, leaning to whisper in her ear, Gold tossing them a glance, “must save him.”

Belle blushed. “I doubt he needs saving, Mr. Dove.”

“Then the two of you have that in common.” With a conspiratorial smile, he urged her forward to his master’s side.

“Ms. French,” Gold said, his breath labored, “it was not necessary for you to run out here to meet us. The weather, your dress, and etiquette are all against you.”

Belle just smiled, taking his free arm in hers and subtly encouraging him to lean part of his weight against her slender frame. To the company of soldiers he would just appear to be a gentleman guiding his wayward charge back to the station, but to his weak ankle, her support made all the difference.

“Mr. Gold, surely you’ve realized by now that I care as much about social graces as I do about the weather?”

“Which is to say, not at all.”

“Correct,” she said, beaming. But when she looked to his face, scouring it for any sign of equal affection and liveliness, she saw only stone. A mask to hide his pain, no doubt, and perhaps something else.

When they arrived at the platform, they found Cruella waiting and shivering. Gold turned back to Belle.

“You haven’t been standing outside this whole time, I hope?”

“…I won’t confess it if you’d rather not know.”

“Thank you for sparing me,” he said, “but perhaps we could retreat inside until we figure out how to progress.”

Something clicked inside Cruella’s head. “Actually, I think I might have a solution.”

In less than an hour their party of four was barreling across the pseudo-tundra, a team of dogs carrying them and their sparse luggage steadily closer to Omaha. Once in Omaha, trains to Chicago were numerous. Belle could taste success on the back of her tongue, begging her to keep going.

She could only imagine what it felt like to Mr. Gold. Although he was bundled up, face obscured as ever, Belle thought he was favoring his leg more than usual. No doubt the cold and the damp and the stress had done a number on his physiology, and the trip to Omaha was to be made entirely standing up.

Slowly, Belle moved in close to his side. She wedged her shoulder beneath his arm, pulling her coats close around her frame. Gold accepted her, his arm firm on her back. She wanted to believe that she felt him draw her close, that he desired her presence at his side –the wanting itself surprised her- but she realized that it was dangerous to assume that he desired her. She had no assurances of his affection, and in all likelihood they would part ways in England and never speak again. She may press herself to his side for as long as this journey lasted, but once he desired her gone… she was gone.

* * *

Dove paced across the holding room, every muscle in his body tense. Gold had been arrested, and it was all his fault!

He’d discovered Cruella’s true motives back in Hong Kong when she’d gotten him drunk and asked him to help her arrest his master on suspicion of bank robbery; when he’d refused, she’d talked him into trying a little opium and left him passed out in the opium den!

And then, when he’d been reunited with his master, he’d kept silent about the truth. Why? Why had he kept Cruella’s secret?

Because, the Frenchman in his head whispered, because you wanted to see it all play out like a drama. You wanted to see how it would end.

It ended in a jail cell, six hours from London, every tick of the clock erasing their chances to make it back in time.

After all they’d been through! After steamers and trains and sleds, fistfights and duels, briefly joining the circus! After Gold had commandeered a ship, bought it, and then stripped every last unnecessary piece of wood to use as fuel, successfully reaching the coast of England in record time…. after all this, he had ruined it. Dove and his secrets; Dove and his little dramas.

Master Gold was the least affected of the party. While Dove paced and Belle sat in the corner, alternately fuming and fretting, Rostand Gold sat perfectly calm in the center of the room. His companions wondered what lurked beneath the surface… was he filled with white-hot rage? Miserable, inconsolable? He seemed so perfectly at ease that no passerby could have guessed that 20,000 pounds were on the line. He merely glanced at his watch every few minutes, mentally recalculating the time left in the bet.

It was a six hour trip to London, minimum. There were seven hours left until a quarter to nine, at which point the bet was over. If they were able to catch the express train, they might just make it.

Time dripped by.

Two o’clock. Three. Three-thirty.

There was a commotion in the hall, steadily coming closer. Detective De Vil burst breathlessly into the room.

“Terribly sorry….darling….close resemblance….robber caught…..three days ago!”

Gold stood, and his careful mask began to slip. He pushed past Cruella, turning as he passed. His face contorted into a snarl. “It’s unfortunate that you’re as unskilled in your profession as you are in your fashion. Incompetent and intolerable are a poor combination.”

The woman clutched her mink stole, expression between a pout, a growl, and regret.

Belle and Dove gave her equally hard looks on their way out. The paperwork was hurried, their bags were claimed, and they were off!

* * *

The residents of Saville Row would have been surprised the next day to learn that Rostand Gold had returned home. The house remained shuttered and quiet.

They were too late.

Instead of bursting into the club victorious winner of the 20,000 pound wager, Gold and his associates had returned to his manor at half past ten the previous night. The deadline was a quarter before nine.

Belle did not sleep, though her guest quarters were very comfortable, more luxurious even than the palace she’d been living in for the last year. Dove didn’t sleep either, keeping a miserable vigil outside his master’s door.

When Gold called for his breakfast, he instructed Dove to keep the lady Belle company until the evening, at which point he would request an audience. Until then he would be putting his affairs in order.

Belle was champing at the bit by the time he invited her into his study. Dove had forced her into a soft blue dress, the cut of which was very flattering to her figure; he’d also insisted on pulling up her hair, pinching her when she fidgeted.

“Mr. Gold!” she cried, rushing in without decorum.

“Miss French. Is something the matter? You’re quite flushed.”

Belle gaped, allowing her protector to guide her into a chair by the fire. “Well… We’ve been worried about you. Your fortune is lost… most men would be in fits.”

“I like to think that I am not most men.”

“No, certainly you are not.” Belle smiled, calmed by Gold’s reassuring demeanor.

“I’m sure you know why I wanted to see you. As you point out, my funds are not what they were.”

“Of course,” she said, practicing her own Gold-ish, stoic expression. “I won’t intrude on your generosity any longer than I have to.”

“Oh? Oh, certainly. I just… Well, you needn’t rush. I asked you in to tell you that you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I may not be as wealthy as I was, but I’m more than capable of providing for you until you find something that suits your needs. I’d hate to see you in a position beneath your station, your education… You are a singular woman, Miss French. You should be fastidious in your choice.”

Belle felt that intangible something stirring in her chest. There was an affection in his words, a gentleness which was drawing her soul into frenzy! Surely it was in her head, the gleaming in his eyes was a trick of her imagination, but she could no longer sit by and allow her heart to beat unrecognized. Belle sucked in a breath. This was as close to an opportunity as she was going to get.

Belle stood, her fingers shaking.

“Miss French?”

“I must—I must speak my mind, Mr. Gold.”

“By all means.”

“I… I am not unaffected by your presence. Surely you have noticed. I know it’s improper, and I know that, as a widow, I am not a suitable match for a man of your status, but I must ask if… if… you will have me for your wife?”

Gold stood, but at first he did not speak. His face betrayed an emotion, but it was one Belle could not read. And as she always did when confronted with a problem that could not be reasoned away, she continued to speak.

“Even if you will not say, I must believe that you are grieved by the circumstances at hand, of which I had no small part. Having contributed to your ruin, I can only hope you will allow me to be a part of whatever comes next. Solitude is a sad thing, with no heart in which to confide your griefs. They say, though, that misery itself, shared by two sympathetic souls, may be born with patience.”

The silence continued, until Belle’s heart began to recognize it as rejection. “I’m sorry. I see I’ve overstepped-”

“No! Not at all, Miss French. I…I…” He squeezed his eyes shut, as if to steel himself for impact. “I love you! Yes, in every country, in every moment, I have loved you with the deepest beating of my heart. I am entirely yours.”

Belle gave an exclamation of joy, throwing her arms around Gold’s neck. Indeed, he returned her affection by wrapping his own around her waist, stooping slightly to hold her close.

Dove was summoned. As he entered the study and beheld both of Belle’s hands wrapped around one of his master’s, held up to his master’s heart, Dove’s big, round face became as radiant as the tropical sun at its zenith.

Mr. Gold asked him if it was not too late to notify the reverend of the local parish, and request a wedding ceremony at his earliest convenience.

“Will that be tomorrow, Monday?”

“Tomorrow, Monday.” Gold smiled, the first true smile since Belle had known him.

“Tomorrow can’t come soon enough,” she said, watching with pupils wide as he drew her hands to his lips, kissing her fingers.

Dove, blushing, rushed off to his task.

* * *

The hands of the Reform Club clock pointed to twenty minutes to nine.

The five persons who had wagered against Mr. Gold sat gathered around the whist table, too anxious to play. There were the three Mills women, Cora, who had made her fortune by marrying up, her eldest daughter Zelena, who was rumored to be interested in the occult, and the youngest (but most vicious), Regina. Hardened by a lost love, Regina was perhaps the most skilled businesswoman in all of England. Only Gold was unafraid of the Mills women and their murky pasts. The other two at the table were common swindlers, as far as Gold was concerned – Killian Jones, a merchant at sea, and August Booth, an art dealer who had been arrested at least once for potential forgery.

“In five minutes, his fortune will be ours,” Regina purred, fingers drumming against the edge of the table.

“Don’t be so certain,” Jones said. “He’s fastidiously punctual, that one. I wouldn’t be surprised if he burst in at the last moment.”

“There’s no way he could have reached England on time. I wouldn’t give up my four thousand pound share for 3,999!” Zelena grinned, beaming around the table. Her smile was not returned.

Four minutes to go.

Then three.

With two minutes remaining, a cry was let up from somewhere down the road. It should perhaps be mentioned, at this point in the story, that the English public had taken a great fascination with Mr. Gold’s wager and subsequent journey. When it had first to come to light, people had begun making wagers of their own. Ten pounds that he dies abroad, twenty that loses a limb – and some more positive, bets about how early he would be, or if he would return alone (which, of course, he hadn’t). But then it had been announced that he was a criminal, a robber, and immediately the fascination had disappeared.

Until the real robber was caught, and with only four days left until Gold’s anticipated return!

Only sixty seconds parted these five and their money. Sixty seconds, being steadily drained away by the ticking of the clock. The cries in the street grew louder – a sound of thunder approaching. Doors were being slammed open on the first floor of the building, but not a breath escaped the lips of the waiting five.

With approximately four seconds left, the door burst open. Rostand Gold stepped into the room, surrounded by a crowd of cheering Londoners.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, here I am!”

* * *

Yes, Rostand Gold in person!

The reader will remember that, on this most fortuitous evening, Dove had been sent to inquire with the local reverend about a marriage ceremony. He went off on this task absolutely enchanted. Perhaps it was the French in him, but nothing made his heart sing like seeing his friends in love. Despite Gold being his master (and Belle his soon-to-be mistress!), there were no two people in the world more dear to his heart.

It took him some time to track down the dear Reverend, but it took him only three minutes to sprint back to Seville Row, his hat clutched against his chest.

He did not even knock on his master’s door, startling the couple there. Belle was seated across Gold’s lap in one of the wingback chairs, her arms draped around his neck, both of them with mussed hair and swollen lips. Neither seemed to regret the disheveling of their appearance.

“So sorry, Master Gold, but a wedding for tomorrow cannot be arranged!”

“Oh?”

“No! For tomorrow is – Sunday!”

“No, today is Sunday.”

“No, today is Saturday! We have made a mistake and arrived 24 hours early!” It was now half past eight, leaving 15 minutes to win the wager. Dove grabbed Belle around the waist and lifted her, depositing her gently on her feet with a soft exclamation of surprise. He grabbed Gold by the shoulders and took off, dragging the man behind him. Belle grabbed up her skirts and followed as the party ran down the stairs. “We have not time to waste!”

After bribing the cab driver, running over a cat, and upsetting several smaller carriages on the way, Rostand Gold arrived at the Reform Club at precisely the right moment. As persons in the street discovered what was happening, they joined him on his mad dash into the Club.

Rostand Gold had won his 20,000 pounds!

Of course he had spent nearly 19,000 on the journey itself, rendering the monetary gain almost worthless. He had undertaken the journey for the victory, not the pounds. He decided to split the thousand pound difference between Dove and Detective De Vil, for whom he held no grudge. He deducted, however, from Dove’s share the cost of the gas which had burned in his room for nineteen hundred and twenty hours, for the sake of regularity.

But how, you may ask, could someone as fastidious and organized as Rostand Gold make a mistake of one whole day? It’s quite simple. Having traveled steadily eastward, the gradation of time zones allowed him to pick up time in a favorable manner. Had he traveled westward, beginning in America, he would have lost a day. So simple, and yet so important!

That evening Mr. Gold and Belle once more retired to his study, choosing this time to sit side by side on the low sofa in front of a large window. He was as tranquil as ever, mask only betrayed by the slight curling of his lips that indicated a deep and resounding pleasure.

“My dear Belle, is our marriage still agreeable to you?”

“Mr. Gold,” she replied, “it is for me to ask that question. You were ruined when you accepted my hand, but now you are rich again. You may wish to seek a more opportune bride.”

“Pardon me, madam, but my fortune belongs to you. If you had not suggested our marriage, to my great joy, then my servant would not have gone to find the Reverend and I should not have been apprised of my error, and-”

“Oh be quiet, my dear Mr. Gold!” Drawing him close with a hand on his neck, Belle planted a kiss firmly on the lips of her husband-to-be.

“Most gladly,” he whispered between kisses, his own hands wandering to the small of her back.

The marriage ceremony took place 48 hours later, and the indefatigable Mr. Dove, glowing and dazzling, gave the bride away. Had he not aided her escape, and was he not entitled to this honor?

The next day, at first light, Dove rapped on his master’s door.

“What’s the matter?” Gold asked, wrapped tightly in his dressing gown.

“The paper, sir. It says that we might have made the tour of the world in only 78 days.”

“No doubt,” returned Mr. Fogg, “by not crossing India. But if we had not done that, we could not have saved Belle, she would not be my wife, and….”

Mr. Gold shut the door, leaving the rest to Mr. Dove’s vivid imagination.


End file.
